


Benefactor

by millionstar



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Language, M/M, Mentions of Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4348433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millionstar/pseuds/millionstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A possible reason Matt and Dom were late getting to the NYC Psycho tour gig.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benefactor

**Author's Note:**

> If you choose to read, thank you.

I'm sitting in a chair in our hotel room, tapping out the beat to Dead Inside on my thighs and cursing him at the same time. If I know our fans, they are already outside the venue, and have most likely been for hours. If I know Chris, he is definitely already at the venue. Morgan is most likely already at the venue, for that matter. Fuck, everyone in the free fucking world is probably already at the fucking venue but I am sitting here, listening to Matthew fucking sing "I'm a little teapot" loudly in the fucking shower.

My phone alerts me to a text; I cringe as I pick it up, because I know who it's from before I even look at it. Sure enough, it's from Chris.

_/the fuck are you?/_

I type out a reply as quickly as I can, just as Matt's falsetto kicks in. "HERE IS MY HANDLE, HERE'S MY FUCKING SPOOOOOOUT"

I shake my head, unable to quell the smile on my lips.

_/Princess taking forever in shower. B there soon/_

I've just started tapping out another beat (Psycho) on my thighs when my phone beeps again.

_/My god it's finally happened/_

_/What?/_

_/He's fucking turned into u/_

His reply makes me laugh. He's got a point.

When the bathroom door opens Matthew emerges, dressed in black from head to toe, a cloud of sweet cinnamon-scented steam billowing behind him, like something out of a film. He's always been good at that, though - at taking everyday, mundane actions and somehow turning them into something impossibly dramatic and flamboyant.

You should watch the fucker make pancakes in his boxers. It would blow your damn _mind_.

When he runs his hands through his still-a-bit-damp hair, time slows to a standstill and I can hear angels singing. What song I couldn't tell you, for before I can process that it's even happened, I find myself with a lap full of Matthew Bellamy. He loops his arms around my neck and scans my face, his brow wrinkling slightly in concentration. The scrutiny makes me flush in a way that I cannot explain. He knows every part of me as intimately as another person can know another, yet when he looks at me like that I am a goner, every single time.

In this minute, Matthew is a living, breathing benefactor of longing.

I protest, although it's a weak protestation at best now that his hand is rubbing me through my trousers. I groan, my head falling back onto the plush backing of the chair. When his mouth latches onto the skin just below my ear, sucking softly in time with the motion of his hand, I pretty much realize that we're going to be late. I just can't find it within me to be too broken up about it.

Precise and eager lips lick against my earlobe, wet, moist heat enveloping it.

Matthew pulls back, smiling softly, his fingertips teasing me while his legs clench around my thighs tightly; he looks thin these days, and he is, but he is also lean, and deceptively strong. His thighs are tight and firm and perfectly toned - I couldn't escape his grip even if I wanted to.

The blood is pounding in my veins and rushing through my ears when my dick begins to take an extreme interest in current events. I feel flushed, overcome, and entirely alive as he increases the pressure and speed of his ministrations. All I can manage are a series of gasps as my hips begin to arc upward in search of more friction.

He straightens up in my lap slightly; I take the opportunity to attempt to touch him, but he's not having it - he bats my hand away. Content to push me over the edge, his hand begins to work between my legs in earnest.

All the while, we remain cheek to cheek, Matthew dropping kisses in random spots across my cheekbone and jawline. He holds me as I shudder through my release, holds me until I can begin to catch my breath. He's staring at me again, or rather, he's looking at me as though I were the most precious and essential person on the planet. It's too much and it's not enough and I need to let him know what he does to me, to let him know that I am unequivocally, completely his for the rest of my life.

"I," I whisper, "I..."

He's staring at me, waiting for me to give voice to what I am feeling, but I don't know how to finish conveying it.

He smiles.

I melt. Again.

It's evident that I don't have to say anything. Matt reaches for my hand and gently presses a kiss to the pads of my fingers, then presses them against his heart. He holds it firmly in place as he rests his forehead against mine. When he gives over to me so completely like this, the connection between us positively crackles. More than that, every time it happens, I experience the same complete epiphany.

(All these years.)

(Only him.)

His cheek is pressed to mine, his skin soft, heat and the essence of cinnamon still radiating from it. I drop a kiss against his ear, protesting when he releases my hand from its temporary home on his chest. He pulls back, only to press his lips to his own fingertips before sliding it beneath my tee to place it over my heart. It's a decidedly tender moment; the shame of it is that it's a moment that we simply haven't had time for these last few weeks. The album and the promotion and the gigs are front and center right now, and that's how it should be. I guess that's what makes these fleeting moments all the more memorable.

Even while mired in a maelstrom of activity, we are as solid as ever. We need occasional reminders of that, and if they happen to manifest moments before we are due for a gig, so be it.

We'll only be a little bit late.  



End file.
